


Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Physicist

by valderys



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: undermistletoe, Harlequin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Rodney just needs to come in from the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Physicist

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005. I had both Le Carre and the film The Tamarind Tree in mind when I wrote this - I'm not sure it's very Harlequin, even if it was meant to be!

It began, as these things often do, with a cliché. In this case with feeding the ducks on a cold winter's morning. Although, not that cold, Rodney thought, not really _cold_. Not Canadian, four feet of snow overnight cold. More a chill in the air really. Enough so his breath had clouded as he'd coughed, and that he'd regretted not putting on a scarf before leaving the flat, but you couldn't call it cold.

In fact, it was a weird morning really, because feeding the ducks at the pond in Hyde Park, well that was just unheard of for him, wasn't it? For a start, that meant giving away part of his bacon sandwich, and that usually happened on a cold day in hell. And it meant loitering on the way to work, and that didn't happen either. The fact that frost had turned the greyness of city vegetation into an almost bearable landscape, and that, even with his streaming cold – and the reason for his lack of appetite – he couldn't face returning to his dingy little office, with the central heating that squeaked and whined its way through its own personal version of Aida, and even dingier colleagues who couldn't seem to see past the shininess of their red tape… Well. That happened. Certainly that happened.

But good-looking men coming up and offering you their handkerchiefs, _that_ didn't happen every morning.

Rodney still remembered it. White and large, and it had had the letter 'J' stitched into the corner. That was easier than remembering the way that John's eyes had glowed as pale green as the water when he'd smiled. Or the way that his black woollen coat had fallen open at the neck just enough to show his throat as he swallowed, and that he'd been more sensible and had managed a scarf. It had been blue.

But that was John all over, now wasn't it? More sensible. Practical. It was something Rodney strove to emulate in the end. And bravery. He tried for that too. In the end.

***

Looking back was pointless, Rodney tried to tell himself that. But pointlessness had never stopped him before, and his thoughts just seemed to carry on tumbling, like mice running on a wheel. You'd think with an intellect like his that he could think of other things at the same time – formulae, and equations, and beautiful elegant problems that solved themselves in his head much more easily than on his blackboard, but it didn't seem to work like that. He couldn't. It was too hard, as though dividing his attention would be the end of things. More final than any of the other things dividing them.

Because the cliché had continued. It had surprised Rodney how easily. John was American, not Canadian, but it was close enough to home for them to feel a kinship, stuck as they both were in this foreign city of London. When they began to see more of each other, as friends, that's what Rodney told himself it was. Two men seeking a shade of home in each other's eyes. An accent that was almost familiar, a similar outlook maybe. Except that John _didn't_ have a similar outlook to Rodney – they argued over everything. From the right way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, to sports, to stupid things like who was a better stand-up comedian – Andy Kaufman or George Carlin.

John made Rodney so mad at times. He'd end up stuttering in his eagerness to refute whatever latest craziness John had come up with, and he'd wave his hands so fiercely that he'd knocked their drinks over more than once. It made John smile, or seemed to, he'd just lounged back on his stool and grinned. It drove Rodney nuts.

It drove him nuts too, that he was halfway through solving his latest equations when stupid things like the way John's hair stuck up all over the place interrupted his train of thought. Stupid things like the way he wanted to stroke the cowlicks back down. Stupid things. Dangerous things.

That's when he'd stopped seeing John. It was best that way. He'd long gotten over his cold, but he found his chest still ached a bit. Stupid wet London weather. Just stupid. Right.

***

Clichés are clichés for a reason. John was waiting for him at the duck pond in Hyde Park. The trees were dripping, and people were hurrying past tucked under umbrellas, and the park looked grey and dank. John had just looked miserable.

He took Rodney's elbow when he'd stammered that he couldn't. That he was late to work. That this wouldn't work. Sorry. Now look, John, I know you have better things to do, or at least I do, whatever you do – what do you do anyway? – and I can't…

But the kiss had been wet and cold and wonderful in the rain.

John had steered them over to a bench, and made Rodney sit down, and they'd watched ducks waddle up to them in a hopeful manner, and John had stroked Rodney's hand under a fold of his coat, and it was all dazed silence and little exploding bombs under Rodney's heart, and he'd known. He'd _known_…

He was a genius. Of course, he'd known.

But he still let himself be taken back to a flat in Soho, and there had been the smell of frying fish from the chippie downstairs, and there had been the feel of rough wool under his fingers, and then skin, as hot as hell, as smooth as cream. And John's voice, casual no more, gasping out his name in broken syllables, as he fell to pieces beneath him. And that. That moment was almost worth it. Almost.

***

Did it make a difference when it wasn't your own country's secrets you were asked to betray? Did that make it better or worse on the moral scale? More understandable surely. There was a lot less loyalty, after all, and stupid things like professional pride weren't meant to enter into it. People didn't assume physicists had things like honour or courage. That was for the boys in blue. Or khaki, or whatever colour they wore. It wasn't for their world, John and his, murky and a little sordid round the edges.

The leaves were beginning to bud in Hyde Park, Rodney had noticed. It should have been the beginning of something, but instead, his hands were nervous, and his equations were scratched on his blackboard like chicken tracks. He was waiting. Waiting for it to start. For the inevitable questions. What do you really do, Rodney? That's interesting, Rodney. Tell me about that, Rodney.

Men like John were never interested in men like him, so Rodney always went to the little flat in Soho with the sour taste of inevitability in his mouth. The only variable here, the only uncertainty was when.

John tasted of sun, and deserts, and stupid cowboy movies Rodney had watched as a kid, in black and white, on a tiny green screen. He drawled his demands into Rodney's shoulder, underscoring them with his teeth, and Rodney could only gasp, and melt, and agree. Even when they lay, afterwards, on sticky twisted sheets, and John fell asleep curled into Rodney's body, his hand fisted on Rodney's chest, even then Rodney knew he was only waiting. He stroked John's stupid, insane hair, and the softness felt like a lie. It should be hard, like other things; like stupidity, and culpability, and weakness. It should be as ugly as the words Rodney was thinking.

Instead, John would sigh and shift closer, and Rodney would hold on. Just hold on.

It made it that much harder, as he'd known it would, when the questions finally began.

***

Rodney was glad he'd met John in London. It was a cramped ugly little city, in his opinion, and its age oppressed him. The money their government paid didn't outweigh his dislike of the place, but the work… The work was worth it. And all they'd asked in return was discretion.

Rodney had wondered what price he'd pay for those shining formulae, those elegant equations. The end products that made him apprehensive but resigned. He hadn't realised the price tag would come with green eyes, and a white smile, and the sort of diplomacy that ought to be sold in bottles, to help little old ladies smooth away their wrinkles. Not that John ever made much _sense_, in Rodney's opinion, but he was always so, so plausible. He admired it really. John was an artist, as good at his job as Rodney, and he appreciated that. He hated that.

He dithered for a long time.

There was always option one – telling his superiors, explaining his sexual deviance, getting himself deported and then never working in a decent laboratory again. Well, option one didn't take long to discard.

Option two was good, he told himself. That he betray it all. Let everything spill into John's ear like honey from a comb. And when he'd given everything, laid it out like shining silver treasure for John to rifle and discard, then he could watch as John walked away, Rodney's heart and life's work spilling unnoticed from his hands… Option two didn't take much effort to reject either.

Option three was the key. And option three kept him awake at night, long slow nights when his bedstead squeaked as he tossed and turned, and the street lights flickered orange outside his window. It was dangerous. And Rodney didn't do danger. He was scared of paper-cuts, for god's sake. This would take him down a road he wasn't sure he was capable of travelling, and what made it worse was that it wasn't just himself.

John wanted answers. And Rodney didn't know how to put him off, not any longer. Not when John looked at him, and smiled, and the voice that had begun to curl into Rodney's dreams caressed him into somnolence. He talked. They all do in the end, he'd heard. And Rodney found it only fitting that he'd begun frantically scratching his own skin at the same time. His eczema flaring up, he explained, but John took Rodney's hands and held them still, before bending down and licking a stripe across their palms. You worry too much, Rodney, he'd said, and Rodney had shivered and closed his eyes.

***

Drip, drip, drip. Feeding little pieces of information. As little as he thought he could get away with. Talking more than ever, but saying even less. Wrapping himself in John's skin, until they were both raw, and panting, and exhausted. Not thinking about the consequences. Always thinking about the consequences.

Rodney knew he wasn't cut out for this.

He began losing weight. He began over-eating. Then nausea would strike on the way home and he'd end up decorating the grey London pavements. He laughed about it sometimes, when he was alone. He'd never agreed with Nietzsche – the soft sciences were nonsensical and woolly, of course – but he'd always had a sneaking liking for 'that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger', for its rawness, and its almost pessimistic optimism. He thought he should be happy that he was radically disproving even that philosophy.

But every day there was John, always John. And sometimes, when he was asleep, Rodney could forget, could almost imagine that this was a perfectly normal relationship, that John liked him for who he was, not what he knew. He refused to even think about the other word. _Love_ didn't even enter into it.

***

Things had changed the day Rodney had spotted the tail. The same man he'd seen in his local grocery store that morning was lurking outside John's apartment that evening. Rodney was certain it was him, he had a certain Neanderthal charm it was hard to hide. He'd towed John away, frantically trying to come up with an excuse, while John went, whoa, Rodney, calm down, and pulled his sleeve out of Rodney's grasp.

You don't understand, Rodney had muttered in a strained whisper. And John had said, yeah, I really do. And that had set him back on his heels. Of course, John knew. He was better at this stuff than Rodney. What had he been thinking?

John was grinning, and Rodney had realised he must have his mouth open like a fish. He'd shut it with a snap, and frowned, before nearly launching into his own diatribe about how it was all right for some people, whose profession led them into bad habits, but some people worked for a living, and this was all new to him… Then he'd remembered that he wasn't supposed to know anything, and he'd nearly swallowed his own tongue trying to bite it all back. John had patted him on the back as he choked.

Who is he? Rodney had asked eventually, thinking it was a safe enough question, and curious about what John might say. His name is Bates, John had replied. He's a… watchdog, I suppose you might say. But relax, Rodney, it's not you he's watching.

Sure about that, are you? Rodney had snapped, and then when John had stared at him, he'd swallowed, and waved his hands, and said, never mind, never mind…

But John had never learned to take no for an answer from Rodney. And Rodney had never learned to deny him. They went back to Rodney's flat, the first time they'd risked that, and Rodney wondered if it was also going to be the last. John had raised an eyebrow at the picture of his cat on the bedstand, and then raised another at the handkerchief stitched with a 'J' folded neatly beside it. His eyes were warm as they turned to him, but Rodney had found he couldn't look John in the eye. Not when it was all going to come crashing down. Not when he'd explained what he'd done. Not when he had to admit that he knew what John was.

He didn't think any pretence was going to survive that. And, oh god, but he missed John already.  


***

"So let me get this straight," said Rodney, "You're a spy working for Russians, and you were sent to compromise me, because the Russians think I'm gay."

"Well, you are gay," John had said in response, and then grinned when Rodney threw a pillow at him.

"Not the point!" Rodney had said, and then frowned some more. "But you are, in fact, not working for the Russians at all, but are really a double agent working for Washington in deep cover, and you think it might be worth coming out of that cover to get the information I've been giving you back to your masters in the CIA. Yes? Have I got that right?"

"About right, yes," said John. He was trying to look sheepish and only succeeded in looking mildly disreputable. Not an unattractive look on him but still.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Rodney, waving his hands, "If you'd told me, then things wouldn't be in such a mess. You should have trusted me!"

"Oh yeah, right," John had said, "Rodney, you can't keep your mouth shut for even five minutes."

"Oh please - I'll have you know," said Rodney, and then stopped. He swallowed, and then went on, "It might interest you to know that I worked it out months ago. I am a genius, remember! I've been feeding you false information, and anything you build from my work will go bang in a spectacular manner, and not exactly when the builders may expect it. So there you go, Mr Whatever-your-name-is, some of us do think ahead!"

"Oh shit," said John, looking worried, "And I'm not a Mister, I'm a Major actually. But the name really is John."

"Oh shit?" Rodney had asked, "What do you mean 'oh shit'? Get back to the 'oh shit' part, Major."

And John had told him.

***

It wasn't as though it was a bad plan, as plans go. Of course, it was hardly the quality of thinking that Rodney was used to coming up with on a daily basis, but it had a certain brutal simplicity. A directness, if you will. Rodney thought it was very John.

Afterwards, Rodney had paced his flat, and chewed on his fingernails. He'd packed a bag, then thought that would be too obvious and packed a briefcase. Then unpacked that, because he never carried one, and wrote a letter. A simple letter. It wasn't as though he needed to do anything else, after all. He'd done nothing wrong.

Then he'd put it on his mantelpiece and went back to work.

His blackboard wasn't quite as comforting now, but shouting at his colleagues for being dim-witted idiots that only their mothers could love usually did the trick. And if the curve of the diagrams occasionally reminded him of the curve of John's ear, or if the elegance of the equations brought to mind the way John's neck would arch as he gasped, well, that was bittersweet, but Rodney would just shake his head and carry on. He found that he could immerse himself totally in the work. He did his job, and then he did more than his job, but those other calculations he kept to himself. He scribbled them in tiny crabbed writing on bus tickets and other junk, and those he'd read and re-read until he knew them by heart, and then he'd burn them in the grate, staring at the letter.

He tried not to think about blood, or guns, or sudden sly death in the urine and garbage of a London alley.

Six months later, Rodney took the letter from his mantelpiece and resigned from his job. He gave homesickness as his reason for leaving. They tried to persuade him to stay, but he was adamant, so reluctantly, after signing endless disclosure agreements, Rodney walked out of his dingy building for the very last time. It was cold and miserable and raining in London, that last day. But somehow it tugged an unwilling smile from him nonetheless. He fingered the passport in his pocket, and took a taxi to the airport.

When the plane left the ground, Rodney didn't look back.

***

The lake was wide and clear, the water a deep dark blue-grey. It slapped the shore in faint ripples and Rodney lifted his head as he heard the honking of a distant bird. He watched as a skein of geese, flying high, arched away and disappeared into the haze. He'd forgotten his scarf again, and he held the collar of his coat closed against the vicious wind that whipped hard across the water. Now this was what cold really felt like.

He took a deep breath and felt the burn all he way down into his lungs. It was painful and threatened to close up his throat, but he didn't flinch when long fingers threaded around his neck drawing soft wool in their wake. Instead, he took another breath, deeper this time, and leaned back. A body that was all lean solid angles answered his. He fit perfectly. Rodney closed his eyes.

"I thought you were dead," he said, softly.

"The rumours of my death yadda, yadda…" said John.

"Don't do it again."

There was a pause. Rodney clutched the scarf a little closer. He didn't need to look down to know that it was blue.

"Don't you want to know what happened?" asked John. And Rodney thought about that. He really, really didn't. He desperately wanted to know. He…

"Did you have to kill people?"

He felt John stiffen, and thought, well, that answers that question. Rodney wondered if he should ask about the rest of the mental checklist that he'd spent the last few months compiling.

"Will anything or anyone… inappropriate blow up in the near future?"

"Not any more."

John was smiling, the bastard. Rodney could tell.

"If that was meant to make me feel better, Major, then I can tell you…"

"No. Sorry."

The words echoed into the clear air and Rodney was suddenly too tired to ask anything more. Was John really working for the Russians after all? If he was working for the Americans, why was he spying on an allied nation's scientist? Precisely whose labs had he prevented being blown up?

Why was he here with Rodney at all?

Rodney shivered, and then felt John's wiry arms wrap around his shoulders heedless of the public place.

"Rodney, it doesn't matter any more. I'm free of it. _We're_ free of it. Isn't that enough?" And John's voice was steady, but something pulled it low and deep.

Rodney wondered. Was that all that mattered? Did the way John's hair stick up like a yeti's in the morning matter more? Did the way Rodney had flown to their rendezvous here and now, after six months, without a backward glance, say everything? Did…

He stopped thinking about it. Enough.

He let himself be turned and steered into the hotel behind them; he let himself be brought in from the cold.

John was right. He didn't want to know, so it didn't matter.

It would have to be enough.


End file.
